


Display

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: Christmas Prompts [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A-Z Christmas Prompt, Christmas Lights, Friendship, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Massage, Hand care, M/M, Regent's Park, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:28:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21675253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: John pushed his hands further into his pockets, clenching and unclenching them in an attempt to encourage blood circulation and warmth. The weather was rather mild for December, but it was still a bit nippy, with a bite to the wind that took any and all extremities in an icy, pinching clasp, and refused to let go. John always struggled to keep his fingers warm without the use of gloves or a big takeaway coffee in weather such as this. Weather that only seemed to only materialise when he was empty handed. He was sure he was cursed.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Christmas Prompts [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559605
Comments: 2
Kudos: 83





	Display

John pushed his hands further into his pockets, clenching and unclenching them in an attempt to encourage blood circulation and warmth. The weather was rather mild for December, but it was still a bit nippy, with a bite to the wind that took any and all extremities in an icy, pinching clasp, and refused to let go. John always struggled to keep his fingers warm without the use of gloves or a big takeaway coffee in weather such as this. Weather that only seemed to only materialise when he was empty handed. He was sure he was cursed.

Shooting a faint glare at the air, at nothing and everything all at once, John hunched his shoulders up and tried to ignore the frigid, snapping pain in his fingers, turning his attention instead to the point of his tortured journey. To the decorations that encompassed him. All the trees of Regent's Park sparkled with small, delicate flashing bulbs around him, drawing swirling, unique, creative shapes up straight, curved, and bowing trunks, and stretching, skeleton, statuesque branches. This year the council had gone with a Winter wonderland theme, so all of the fairy lights were a pretty yellowy-white, casting an ambient and beautiful glow along the bare bark they were thatched over. All drew the eye to a giant Christmas tree, complete with huge cut out snowflakes, which glittered with ever shin, flashing bloom.

Michael Bublé was playing over some hidden speakers, echoing throughout the park for the people that walked the winding paths, chatting and enjoying the non-drizzling evening, and John let himself get drawn right along with them, trailing behind an elderly couple with each crooned word and beautiful played note of Bublé's songs filling his head. It really set the scene. Made it all the more magical, serene, and ethereal. John loved the feelings it evoked, both in himself and those around him, who smiled whenever he happened to catch their eye, expressions friendly and calm and enthralled. It was a nice change of pace from the usually hard, bustling, stoic London he knew.

As he turned away from appreciating the Christmas tree, there was a flicker of a shadow in his peripheral vision, prowling, closing in, and considering he had been involved in putting away more than a handful of dangerous criminals, John stiffened, immediately on high alert. He took a moment to breathe, to swiftly inspect the area near him, and then span around, racing heartbeat racing stuttering and anger flaring as he spotted and instantly recognised his lurker. 

Of course. It had to be. Who else would it be?

Sighing and rocking back on his heels, he watched Sherlock cross a path toward him, casually, idly, pretending to be oblivious to John's presence, before making a show of lifting his head and catching sight of John as if for the first time, heading over with a small smile, “Out for a stroll?” John asked sarcastically. “Or stalking?”

“ _Ah_ , I see, so you can go for an impromptu walk but I can’t, is that it?” Sherlock replied with an eye roll, coming up to brush arms with him, bumping to steer them into another direction, their footsteps becoming synchronised as John started off again with yet another sigh. “If you must know, I’m escaping Mrs Hudson’s chatter. Apparently, she ran into an old friend earlier today and just _had_ to tell me _all_ about it. Starting from the _very_ beginning and describing, in immense detail I might add, when they had first met. But not before, _of course_ , reminding me on how different the world was ' _back in the day_.'”

John chuckled, “Ah, of course. Back when music was _music_ and you could get a brand new house for 6p.”

Sherlock let out a low groan of exaggerated disdain, “ _Oh don’t_ ,” he groused, tipping his head up to stretch his neck in annoyance with a bounce of curls, dragging his feet and flicking up his collar. “She was _still_ talking even when I shut the door in her face.”

“She had me stuck for forty-five minutes the other day, whilst she told me how Cliff Richard once asked her to sing backing vocals on one of his songs...” John laughed, shaking his head fondly. “I honestly would have thrown myself out of the window if she said his name one more time.”

Huffing out a breathy laugh, Sherlock shot him a sideways glance, “Yet you do nothing when she plays his Christmas songs on repeat?— _How_ , John? Just how can you listen to ‘Mistletoe and Wine’ and _still_ enjoy it? Still bob and hum to it every morning? How have you not been driven to _insanity_? - It’s been played, every single day, every morning and evening, since the beginning of November!”

“I've become adept at ignoring annoying things,” John replied as he gave Sherlock a pointed look, letting his mouth turn up in a tight grin. “I'm quite good at it… _Most_ of the time. Unless it follows me into parks, that is.”

“ _I’m_ annoying?” Sherlock scoffed, eyebrows up, “Mr sucks-his-teeth-after- _every_ -meal? - Exasperating, I may be. Difficult, absolutely. Punchable, most definitely. But annoying? Inconceivable.” He flashed a slanted, playful smirk, and tucked his chin down into his scarf, shrugging with casual indifference at John's responding, curt and dry laugh. “At any rate, you can't deny that your walk has _vastly_ improved with my presence. You weren’t smiling before. You glared and then just... stared with the most indifferent expression on your face that I've ever seen.”

“We all have some kind of resting face. That must be mine. - I was enjoying the lights. Taking it all in. Pondering,” John murmured, giving his own shrug when Sherlock's eyebrow twitched and giving a nod to the arrangement. “I _love_ fairy lights, you know. I don't know what it is about them, exactly… though I think maybe it's because of a memory. From when I was a kid. - My gran once took me to Blackpool on a holiday and I was _transfixed_ by the lights. So much so that I didn't speak until we had got to the outskirts. They're just so very pretty. Enchanting.”

Sherlock gave the bright, twinkling display around them an inspecting look, “I don't see how these remind you of that time. Blackpool illuminations are a lot more animated, colourful, and fairly amusing. - These are rather drab in comparison, I would have thought.” 

“I suppose so, but a line of blinking lights is a line of blinking lights - Although, I think I prefer the clear and white ones more than the coloured… it's less garish. Coloured ones are fine on the tree, but I think that, in a park like this?” John gestured around them and then shook his head, dropping his arms to return his hands to the tepid space of his pockets. “I don't know, I think they look better. _Cleaner_ somehow, more classy.”

“ _Where_ are your gloves?” Sherlock asked with a sudden frown, turning to him and taking a quick hold of John’s arm, tugging with a frustrated exhale through his nose. 

John hitched up one shoulder, letting himself be jostled and plucked at, “Accidentally left them on my desk at work,” he mumbled, “Sarah was rambling about something and picking fault with my energy levels as I was trying to leave, and they slipped my mind. They're pretty old anyway. Got a hole in the thumb and are starting to fray… I don't suppose you have your super posh ones with you that I can borrow? The ones that are made from unicorn hide, sewn by clever elves with golden threat?”

“Shut up and give me your hands,” Sherlock told him, somewhat sternly, and wrenched John's up at the elbows, taking hold of both his hands between his relatively warmer ones to squeeze, rub, and skillfully massage. The nimble, proficient work was not at all surprising, but the jolt after jolt of satisfying pleasure certainly was, and John gawped for a moment, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Sherlock looked them over, smoothing his thumbs over a few patches of chapped and cracking skin, and gave a dramatic tut. “You’re _ridiculous_.”

John swallowed, trying to shake away the strange cascading tingles from his head, his shoulders, and ignore the odd shiver of electricity that went through his nerves when Sherlock gentled his touches, "Sherlock, you..." Pushing his bumbling thoughts away, he focused on his darker, rougher hands, at the tone of his skin and nails compared to the huge ones of Sherlock's, which were ivory white. “You-you don't need to do that.”

“They’re like blocks of _ice_ , John,” Sherlock replied and, keeping his grip light, moved the two of them aside as a couple came up behind, trying to get by. “You really have to take more care of your hands. I need them. The _Work_ needs them.”

John looked into his face and then away, following a swaying strand of bright, white, blazing lights before bringing his eyes back to Sherlock, “They do me just fine. I mean, I delivered a _baby_ , for Christ's sake! My hands are adept and fast and... _fine_. - Yeah they're a bit knackered, I suppose, but that comes with age. Comes from holding a scalpel, a gun, a cane and now from scrambling after you. I never going to have smooth hands like yours. I have working hands.”

Pausing, Sherlock glared at him from under his brows, pursing his mouth, insulted, and began rubbing several scars, calluses and healed burns that littered his skin against John’s palm, brushing rough knuckles up the line of his fingers, “I _don’t_ have smooth hands,” he argued in a disapproving murmur. “My hands work just as much as yours do, John, yet look at how healthy they are compared to yours. Hm. _Look_!” He lifted John’s hands then, cupping them together and blowing hot air between them, ducking his head to tap at some tender looking dry skin within the gap between John’s left thumb with the tip of his nose. “If that splits any further, you’ll be bleeding. It can’t be comfortable?”

“That's 'cause you've got that nice cream!” John huffed, almost pulling back from Sherlock's grip completely when those tingles, those jolts, increased in intensity, but Sherlock wouldn't release him and only blinked slowly in aggravation, tightening his hold. “It is! I don't really use hand cream. I just wash my hands and go about my day—Plus, it's all that anti-bacterial stuff I have to use at work. It dries them out." Taking a breath, John let out a chuckle, glancing away. "What I need is a hand massage every night after work--”

“I can’t do it _every_ night,” Sherlock replied, freezing John's wonky smile to his face and stroking gently at another the heal of John’s hand, the skin there so dry it was sore to the touch. “Perhaps I should buy you some ‘nice cream’ then? You could work it into your bedtime routine.”

“I-I-I wasn't suggesting that _you_ rub my hands for me,” John spluttered with a rather manic, strangled sounding laugh, blushing and looking away from Sherlock's intense gaze and tilting head. “I just… y'know… random people. Strangers— _No_ , I mean, not _strangers_ , but... you know!” He stopped talking with a clench of teeth and let out an embarrassing jittery sigh. They were standing in a cold, vast park, surrounded by the twinkling of lights and the romantic ballads of Bublé. It was ludicrous. They were ludicrous. John cleared his throat and finally gathered enough strength to take his hands away, separating them, feeling free from strange feelings. “We should carry on walking?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes with contemplation and the vague flutter of petulant indignation, then delved into his pocket, retrieving his gloves and snatching up John’s left wrist, battling to keep a hold when John retreated,“Put these on at least,” he uttered, staring until all movement ceased so he could adjust them somewhat, rolling up part of the palm so they fit a bit better. John took them with nod of gratitude. “I don’t see the issue though? I don’t see the difference between you massaging my shoulder when I pull a muscle and me massaging your hands?”

John hesitated, thinking of his response as he pulled the gloves into position, “Hands are – _intimate_. It's odd to have someone who isn't a lover touching them like that… it's... it's a bit erotic? For me, anyway. I just... it's just different,” he told him in a low voice.

“... So if I were to touch you anywhere else, to massage you, it _wouldn’t_ be erotic?” Sherlock questioned, arching an eyebrow and suddenly sliding his hand up John’s arm, across his shoulder, to thumb at is ear, giving it a tweak. “Here, for example? Is _this_ erotic?”

Glowering, John gave a slight yelp and the sensation and reared back, slapping at Sherlock's wrist, “ _Oi_! Don't do that… and – _well_ – it depends on the situation! You yanking at my ear isn't erotic, no, but if you… you know… if you touched, nibbled it, or just sort of stroked it in a certain way, then _yes_!”

“Then I should yank at your hands, is that what you’re telling me?” Sherlock snorted. “Be aggressive? Press _hard_? Knead _deep_? Enough to be uncomfortable enough to shoo away anything remotely _titillating_?” 

“Hard and deep can be erotic too,” John retorted with a brief curling smirk, shoving away the odd feelings and sensations from Sherlock's hand on his that he wasn't willing, or able, to decipher.

“ _Exactly my point_ ,” Sherlock told him with a taunting tone to his voice, giving a cheeky returning grin and rolling his eyes. “So please do stop being so _absurd_ and let me help you.” Reaching out, he jerked on the gloves in turn, as if making sure they were in place on John’s hands, rubbed some more warmth into them, and then pushed both back into John’s pockets. “Although, you _could_ always just ask to use my hand cream yourself if you're not willing to allow me to assist you.”

“Oh come on! You'd have thought I was some sort of hand-lotion pervert if I had asked that,” John laughed stiffly. “Especially if I go sneaking in to use it. You'd think it was for some _dastardly deeds_.”

“You forget who you’re talking to,” Sherlock replied and unexpectedly, and quite effortlessly, looped John’s arm with his. “I _know_ you. I know when and what you use for ‘ _dastardly deeds_ ’ and it certainly isn’t hand cream. You know better than that.” He threw a knowing, penetrating look his way and began their walk once more, leading John onward. “Sneaking is also rather useless. I am aware of almost _everything_.”

“Have you been rooting around in my top drawer again?” John asked, only partly joking as he felt his blush get deeper and hotter, almost certain that steam would be coming off his cheeks if it had been any colder. “Not that I'm embarrassed, of course. I knew you'd know. It's common knowledge. A normal physical reaction for men, The er… _deeds_.” He cleared his throat nervously, when two women, huddled together, skipped on by with passing glances. “ _God_ , why am I walking around a park talking about my er – habits? You're a _madman_!”

“ _You_ started it,” Sherlock muttered, lips turning up, “and you ought to be more careful about that, John. Anyone would think you were… _gagging_ for a certain something. So much so that it slips into everyday conversations. That the simplest, purest, most unremarkable of things become overly sexualised. - I mean, _hand massage_ being erotic? Come on now, John. What’s next? Temple rubbing?”

“Clearly you've never had your hands massaged! Because hand massage _is_ erotic!” John hissed, startling an older woman with a child beside him, who tutted loudly and pushed past to walk faster. _“Oh for god's sake—_ People are going to think I'm some sort of _sex criminal_.”

“Perhaps you are?” Sherlock gasped mockingly with a deep, thrumming chuckle, bringing up his fingers to count. “There are those who rub themselves against your back in public transport, those who suck on your toes without consent, those who sniff your dirty lingerie, and then there’s _you_ , secretly getting off to a little bit of hand palpation. The most _devious_ of sex criminals.”

“I _hate_ you so much,” John groaned, but couldn't help bursting into small, tickled giggles, his glare weakened when Sherlock responded in kind, bowing down his head with crinkled eyes. “You are truly the _worst_ person in the world. You're cruel! Inhuman! A vile creature!” He nudged against Sherlock, letting their hips touch for just a second, and elbowed him in the ribs when he only found it all the more amusing. "You're a wicked, _wicked_ man."

“Mm. It’s a good thing that you’re my friend then, isn’t it? Imagine if you weren’t,” Sherlock drawled, hiding his quirking lips under his scarf.

John exhaled a short mirth filled breath, “Yeah, _imagine_ ,” he grumbled, sharing a lingering tender look, the lights that surrounded them haloing Sherlock’s messy hair and adding a stupidly charming gleam to his eyes.

“...You won’t though, will you?”

“No. No, I couldn't. _Can’t_. Even when I think I _want_ to.”

“Good.”

“Yeah… it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback fuels us! 
> 
> [Kittie's Twitter](https://twitter.com/ao3hill)  
> [Gem's Tumblr](http://gem-gem-bites.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
